Tori
I found myself drifting in and out again. There was no way to track the time, not even by my hunger now. I was all out of sorts, weak and pathetic and hating myself for it. There was nothing to break the monotony. There was no change in the light. There was no sound but my own breathing and the terrible, high-pitched hum of electric lights. The sound of human filth.
And yet, I sat up in relief when the door at the top of the stairs opened. Before her waist was fully in view, before she could see me, I laid down, waiting.
She was carrying something.
I watched, refusing to give her the satisfaction of being the first one to speak.
Chicken. It smelled like chicken. A bowl of something. It smelled… salty. Gwen walked over calmly, holding up the whistle in one hand, a stern look on her face. She didn’t say a word as she unlocked the cage. I moved to keep watch on her, as she set the bowl down and closed the cage again. The lock was thunder as it snapped shut. I gritted my teeth, trying to ignore the pain, waiting for the taunts. Waiting for her to say good girl or to talk down to me.
She didn’t.
Gwen barely looked at me. She didn’t say anything at all, she just turned and walked away, headed for the stairs.
I almost called to her. I needed something to crack the boredom. Anything, even just a clock to stare at. Something to give me some sense of time. But I stopped myself. I kept my pride. She wasn’t going to speak, I wasn’t going to say anything either.
I don’t know if anything had ever felt heavier than my own body at that moment, as the door at the top of the stairs closed, another crack of thunder, the sound of a heavy lock engaging. I had never noticed that before.
No utensils. Again. In the bowl was a rich-looking broth, a few noodles and small pieces of vegetables in it. I sniffed it, wary of poison, but it smelled fine. If she wanted me dead, I’d be dead. She could stab me through the bars with that spear of hers, the silver-tipped spear, and there would be nothing I could do about it.
My hand ached. I stared down at it, my other hand going to my face. My fingertips brushed my cheek and came back wet.
Tears.
* * *
Gwen
I wanted to give in to crying so badly. She hadn’t said a word. Just watched me, no expression on her face at all.
She hated me and I couldn’t even blame her. In that moment, I hated me too.
I couldn’t stay down there. I didn’t have it in me to face her, to stare her down again, to try and force my dominance on her. Not when all I wanted was to hold her.
I swiped the back of my hand across my face, wiping away tears. I certainly couldn’t let her see me cry. She needed me to be strong. She needed me to be the Packleader she expected, until I could be the Packleader she deserved.
My feet felt like lead as I pushed off the security door. The path to my workshop was clear. I had orders to fill, and it was relatively simple jewelrymaking - I also had an order from some rich fuck who wanted a full set of silverware on a rush, even though he had argued over the design for a full week.
I didn’t need the money, but I did need the distraction, and I need to keep the business in the black, keep a positive reputation. If I didn’t, Granddad’s nest egg, my safety net, would dwindle to nothing and I’d worked too hard for too long to see that happen.
With a heart as heavy as my steps, I made my way to the bedroom, grabbed my laptop, and marched my ass out to the shop. As I warmed up the forge, I watched Vicky eat. I hadn’t realized how worried I had been about that, but seeing her sip the soup made me feel better. I kept the camera going, off to the side as I worked. The jewelry was mostly blowtorch work, the tests on the silverware mold had gone well, but I had yet to try actual silver in it, and as Granddad always said, No plan survives contact with the enemy.
Fuck, if that wasn’t true. Nothing had gone right with Vicky. Not a damn thing, not from the first moment. She was unlike any wolf I had ever known. She was unlike any woman I had ever known. She had surprised me over and over, but I couldn’t give up.
I wouldn’t give up.
I would also have to redo this particular pendant. Swearing, I tossed it into the bucket. I had been watching Vicky instead of the silver. My mind was still on that recipe.
Hours later, a gallon or more of sweat later, a lunch eaten over the forge later, I was satisfied. The pendant and earrings were done to my satisfaction. The first set of silverware was cooling. And I needed a break.
So of course I found myself back in front of Granddad’s book. Open to that same page.
Despite the queasiness in my stomach, I pressed on. I had to. I couldn’t keep ignoring her, and she wasn’t going to lay down and listen just because I asked nicely. And I couldn’t let her go. The last mixture had gone so badly though. This recipe didn’t even have a name.
I scanned the ingredients for the seventh time, verifying again that none of the ingredients were toxic to humans or wolves. Dried roses with the thorns removed. I tended to keep a small stock of the ingredients mentioned in the book, just in case. Mint leaves ground into a powder. I was running low on some, but I had enough for this. A drop of milk. My heart pounded - if this one went wrong, I didn’t know what I was going to do. A bit of raw honey. If this one didn’t work, I had to let her go. Three sprigs of lavender.
I got twice the water needed to cover all of the ingredients in a pot, getting it to a boil.
Making this recipe didn’t feel right, but nothing else had worked, and Granddad’s book said this had the next highest success rate. After this, it suggested literally terrorizing them until they were afraid of everything so you could comfort them back to a calm state - but it failed more often than it succeeded, and even the “successes” were permanently scarred.
Maybe that was acceptable if the wolf was stuck dire, feral and dangerous, the last chance before killing them, but it wasn’t an acceptable risk with Vicky.
With the water roiling, I added the ingredients and began stirring it with a green willow branch - some of it had to seep into the mixture for this to work. When the color began changing the way the book described, I added the final ingredient.
With one of the thorns removed from the rose, I pricked my thumb and let three drops of my blood fall in.
The curious part of my brain wondered who the hell figured any of this out.
Leaning down, I sniffed above the pot - it didn’t smell like anything at all. Not mint, not rose, not willow. I felt my stomach tingle, however. With witchcraft, it was impossible to tell what was real and what was psychosomatic, but that was part of it, right?
The feeling likely meant it was working.
Nothing in the recipe explained why my blood was needed, but from what I understood it was generally to protect the person making the mixture from its effects. Once it had cooled, I poured it into a spray bottle, staring at it. As the book said, the mixture had the faintest pink tint to it.
All I had to do was spray some of it on myself.
Long, long minutes passed as I stared at the bottle. I wasn’t going to use it. I needed it… just in case. I was going to give her one more chance, I owed her one more chance. I wasn’t sure yet what my angle was going to be, but this had to be a last resort.
I wasn’t sure how Vicky had survived this long, but as far as I could see, she was one bad mistake away from falling into a far, far worse fate than being captured by me. Pushing the bottle to the back of the counter, I made sure the stove was off before I grabbed another bottle of water for her and headed downstairs. She’d likely need to go to the bathroom.
I had no idea what I was going to say, but I had to try.